


The Statement of Fiddleford H. McGucket.

by irlmaxxor



Category: Gravity Falls, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Crossover, Gravity Falls AU, In Which Bill Fucks Things Up As Per Ususal, Lovecraftian, M/M, Mystery Trio, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irlmaxxor/pseuds/irlmaxxor
Summary: “Now y’have to understand... “ Fiddleford started, dragging a hand slowly through his hair as he tried to imagine how he could possibly frame this in a way that the Agent would believe. “At first this wasn’t abnormal for either of us. Stanley and I were both perfectly accustomed to Stanford’s obsession with his work, and sure he was gettin’ slightly more into it than normal, but he truly believed he was reachin’ some kind of break through, somethin’ his benefactors at the University had been asking him to provide since the moment he set down roots in Gravity Falls. We didn’t notice how bad it’d gotten until it was too late.”(UPDATED & FINISHED 2018) A Gravity Falls Mystery Trio AU inspired by the Lovecraftian Story: The Statement of Randolph Carter. The original story was written and published by H.P. Lovecraft in 1920, this is a retelling using characters from Gravity Falls in place of Lovecraft’s characters.





	The Statement of Fiddleford H. McGucket.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Statement of Randolph Carter](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/366870) by H.P. Lovecraft.. 



> I attempted this story three years ago, tried to stretch it into something bigger than it was, and promptly gave up halfway through. Truth be told, the fact that I never finished it has been annoying me for three years too. Not sure if the fanfic part of the fandom is still alive, but I re-wrote the two short chapters I’d posted and combined them with a final part to complete this fic. It’s still split up into three parts, partly because I think it flows better, partly as a homage to the way Lovecraft published some of his old stories in installments, but it’s still posted as one whole story. I’m glad to finally have this booted out of my WIP folder.
> 
> Stay weird, and enjoy \o/ 
> 
> \- Max.

# 1

It occurred to Fiddleford while he was sat in the police station, drumming his fingers against the briefcase clutched tightly in his lap, that this might be his final chance to convince them. He had been questioned a total of three times, by three different sets of officers all outfitted in smart clothes and accusatory expressions, and a total of three times he had been yelled at, cursed at, once even spat at, with each encounter ending in another night spent curled up the county jail. The fact of the matter was, no matter how many times they questioned him, the story he had recounted three times over was the honest to God truth. Granted, it was a difficult truth to digest, but it was truth nonetheless.

So it was that he sat in the waiting room, tense, mentally reviewing his story for the umpteenth time and desperately praying that the details between each retelling had remained consistent. When the receptionist finally called him through, he wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or terrified. 

He followed her to the end of the corridor, his mind swimming with a thousand conflicting thoughts. His shoes squeaked on the clean floors, and he frustratedly tugged at his shirt in an attempt to smooth out some of the more persistent creases. Even his walk gave him trouble, wondering whether a confident stride would make him seem more or less guilty. He supposed none of it really mattered as the receptionist knocked on the door to the Superintendent's office, because he was sure they had decided on his guilt already. 

When the receptionist ushered him inside and shut the door behind him, he thought for a moment that he was alone. It was only when a shape moved across the other side of the room that he realised he was not. 

“‘Scuse me?” He called, squinting in the dim light. There was a single desk in the center of the room with a lamp sat square in the middle. Bright as it was, it was the only source of light in the room and his eyes were hazy enough already. “Are you--”

The figure finished his sentence for him. 

“I am.”

He approached the desk, coming into the light with a grim expression and a cup of coffee in hand. He took a seat, and with a wordless gesture suggested that Fiddleford do the same. 

“Dr. Fiddleford McGucket…” He muttered whilst milling over McGucket’s file, more to himself than the suspect sat before him. “That is your name, correct?”

“Correct, sir.”

“My name is Agent Powers. Do you know why you’re here?”

“I do, sir.”

The corners of his lips tugged into something approximating a grin.

“You’re polite. Good, this should go smoothly.” 

“I like to think my ma raised me right in that respect,” Fiddleford mumbled into the table, lifting his briefcase into his lap and trying not to fiddle with the clasp. Nervousness was indicative of guilt, he reminded himself, and he was not guilty. 

“Naturally, your case has been explained to me in full. I’ve read the account you submitted last week, but I intend to hear it from you personally before we continue.” Agent Powers paused, making a point of meeting his suspect eye to eye. “The officer who interviewed you last told me your story is sketchy at best, downright fantasy at worst. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?” 

“No, sir.” He replied, swallowing his nerves and shaking his head. “Your men have made it clear that they think my story’s a load of hogwash, but I can assure you that everything I witnessed happened just as I’ve described. If there’s anything in those files that’s vague or written in error, you can put it down to the nature of that which I witnessed. It’s an unfortunate truth that some things just weren’t meant to be described by the likes of man.” 

“And you knew them both personally, Stanford and…”

“Stanley Pines, yes.” 

Much to McGucket’s relief, the Agent had finally taken his eyes off him to start taking notes, so he seized upon the opportunity and keep talking in the hopes that it would keep Powers’ head (and piercing eyes) down for the duration of the interview. 

“I was Stanford’s roommate in college,” He began, “And back then I reckon I was his closest friend. Despite studying different fields we got on like peas in a pod, so naturally we stayed in touch after graduation. I delved into computer science some time after that, but six years or so back I got a call from Stanford bragging about some fancy scholarship the University had granted him. He asked me to work with him, to put a pause on my career to help achieve somethin’ great. I was hardly keen on the subject of his work, but it made Stanford happy, and since my own plans weren’t exactly takin’ off as I’d hoped...”

“So you agreed to work with him?”

“I did. I moved up to Gravity Falls that same summer.” 

“What about the other brother. Stanley, you said his name was?” 

Fiddleford nodded his head, the ghost of a smile flitting across his features. 

“Stanley was his twin brother. He didn’t enroll at the University, somethin’ to do with disagreements in the family, but he visited often enough and I grew to love him as much as I loved his brother. He was like Stanford, only more fierce. He was the protective type, wouldn’t hear a word against his brother, especially accountin’ Stanford’s… Abnormality. ”

“That’s not something you mentioned in your report,” He muttered, looking up from his pad. “Define ‘ _abormality_ ’.”

“He has-- … Had, six fingers,” McGucket said, frowning slightly. Much like Stanley, he wouldn’t hear a word against Stanford’s hands, from an Agent of the State or not. “Central polydactyly.”

“Which hand?”

“Both.”

Powers observed him quietly, wondering for a moment if this was part of a joke he’d missed. When Fiddleford’s expression remained resolute, he put the pen and pad down on the table and leaned back in his chair, mentally preparing himself for the part of the interview he’d been dreading all morning. 

“Eyewitnesses claim they saw you entering the forest surrounding Gravity Falls with both Stanley and Stanford Pines at half past eleven pm, last Sunday night. Can you confirm the accuracy of this statement?”

Fiddleford wondered who in their sleepy little town would have been up to see them so late, but pushed the question out of his head and confirmed that this was indeed the case. 

“And can you confirm,” He continued unfazed, “That when you were discovered unconscious on the outskirts of the forest the following morning at six am, you were found alone?”

“I can.”

The crack in Fiddleford’s voice betrayed his frailty, but fortunately Powers had the sense to look away, instead fishing around in a drawer to his right until he pulled out a small microphone and tape-recorder. Fiddleford watched, eyes flicking between his unwavering expression and the recorder, quickly surmising what was going to happen next. 

“Now that the formalities are out of the way… I’d like you to tell me your story. Spare no detail, however trivial. My superiors want me to record this conversation for posterity, so please speak into the microphone slowly and clearly.”

Fiddleford gave a curt nod, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, bracing himself. This was his last chance… He had to make it count. 

“I’d say it started about when Stanford began havin’ those funny dreams…”

# 2

“Hey, Nerd!”

Stanley’s voice cut clean through the morning air, more hoarse than usual on account of his recent cold. He stood by the front door wrapped in layer after layer of insulative clothing; an undershirt, his regular shirt, a scarf, gloves, a jacket and coat, and the old beanie he’d kept from his college days. A beaten up old watch concealed under three layers of sleeve read that he was five minutes late. 

“Nerd!”

His call was met with a low groan from the top of the stairs. Stan beamed at the sight of tired feet ambling down the stairs, then at the unkempt, creased shirt, and finally a rough looking, blonde bed-head smiling back at him as he reached the ground floor.

“You’re gonna have t’be a lot more specific than that, Stanley,” He mumbled, stifling a yawn and shaking his head. “There are two nerds sleepin’ up there.”

“Sixer finally got some rest?”

“I doubt it. I more meant sleeping in the hypothetical sense.”

“Right…”

“So did you need somethin’, darlin’? Or were you just dragging me from my nice, warm bed for the fun of it?” Fiddleford asked, stretching and tucking in his shirt. 

Warmth pooled in Stan’s chest at the sound of his favourite pet name, leaning down to plant a quick kiss on his tired partner’s forehead. Fiddleford hummed in appreciation, his grin stretching and turning into a drawn-out yawn.

“I’m heading out for work, just wanted to let one of you know before I left.” 

“Hence the non-specific ‘nerd’. Tactful.”

“Heh, somethin’ like that,” Stan paused, wrestling with his zipper as it struggled to close over his ambitiously thick scarf (which Fiddleford’s mother had knitted specially for him, God bless her soul, despite it being big enough to clothe three men at least). “Dan’s got me working an extra shift today, which means profit with a capital P. Maybe we could even eat out this week.”

“Stanley,” Fiddleford laughed, shaking his head and moving to help Stan with his jammed zipper. “Do you have a problem with my cooking?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

McGucket hummed in agreement. 

“It would be nice to have the night off for once. Lord only knows how you and your brother survived for so long on Pot Noodle. Y’should’ve seen Stanford back in our University days, he was somethin’ awful in the kitchen. Half the dorm hated us on account of that time he set off the fire alarms in the early hours of the mornin’.”

“World’s smartest idiot,” Stanley agreed. With the zip finally free, he turned (somewhat reluctantly) to face the door, opening it a crack to taste the weather outside. It was late November, and through he was more than a little excited at the prospect of spending another warm Christmas with his two favourite people in the world, working at the logging station in the snow was getting harder by the day. Fortunately enough for him, Dan was a forgiving boss. He suspected there wasn’t anyone else in Gravity Falls who treated his workers so fairly.

“Ugh, Stanley…” Fiddleford mumbled, staring out through the crack at the blizzard whipping up outside. “Do you really have to go out in that? You know Stanford’s grant covers most of our livin’ costs.”

“C’mon, someone’s gotta help pay the bills,” He gestured upstairs to where he hoped his brother was still sleeping. “And Sixer’s wasting daylight.”

“Stay safe.”

“Quit your worrying, I’ll be fine.”

Fiddleford sighed, then leaned forward to give Stan a quick goodbye kiss. Stan responded with a wide grin, tipping an imaginary hat and opening the door to face the cold. 

He waved, shut the door, and all of a sudden Fiddleford was left alone to his thoughts. 

As always, when said thoughts weren’t centered on the man currently dragging his feet through the snow on his way to work, they were drifting upstairs to his twin. No doubt Stanford was still awake, hunched over his desk and scribbling lord-knows-what into his journal. He’d always been a night-owl, even at University, but recently his bad sleeping habits were getting worse. For the most part Fiddleford pretended not to notice, (he told himself it was out of courtesy), but it was reaching a point where the dark circles and constant yawning were becoming impossible to ignore. 

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to check on him, at least. It wasn’t as if he was going to get any more sleep. With that, he took a quick detour to brew two cups of coffee and with both in hand he followed his thoughts up the stairs, toward Stanford’s room. It was just as he began wondering how he was going to knock with his hands full that he noticed the door was already ajar, and so he carefully pushed it open with his foot and peered inside. 

Ford was sat in the center of the floor; his legs crossed and eyes closed, ten candles in all surrounding him in a circle. Fiddleford had heard him reference his new “meditation techniques” in the past, but it was something entirely different witnessing it in person. He stood in the doorway, not wanting to stare, but itching to figure out what it was setting off alarm bells in his head. It struck him then that his research partner was abnormally still, captured in perfect stillness in direct contrast to the candle flames flickering wildly around him, casting tall and wicked shadows on the walls of the small room. It was making Fiddleford nervous. He set a cup of coffee down on a nearby desk, then made his way to the center and reached out, gently touching Ford’s shoulder to bring him back to the here and now. He glanced to his feet, making sure to not step inside the circle. A wave of relief washed over him as Ford slowly stirred, looking human once more. 

"FIddleford," Stanford chimed in a warm greeting. His eyes blinked to adjust, even in the dim light, and without further ado he set about uncrossing his legs and righting himself. "What time is it?"

Fiddleford shook his head and laughed quietly. Ford never did cease to amaze.

"I'd put it at about seven," He replied, watching on with curiosity as Ford set about blowing out the candles one by one. "Ay-em, that is. Stan just left for work, we were hopin’ you’d be asleep. What exactly were you doin' down there?"

"Sleep? Oh, no no no. I haven't had much time to sleep lately, not since our last breakthrough." 

He was of course referring to the old book resting on his bedside desk. They had uncovered it on their last group excursion, in a shrine-like cavern in the old cave system running underneath Gravity Falls. Fiddleford had rather strongly suggested that it was best left alone, on account of the numerous morbid images engraved on the cave walls surrounding it, but naturally his caution was dwarfed by the Pines twins and their unnatural attraction to danger. Stanley was thrilled by the risk, and Ford had been treating the book like a holy bible since they'd found it, constantly pouring over its nigh-indecipherable contents and muttering to himself in an unknown language for the past week or so. 

"I think I'm on the edge of cracking this thing wide open, Fiddleford," Ford continued, picking up the book and excitedly flicking through it as he paced the length of the room. "Do you recall the entity I referred to the other day? 

“… The triangle?” 

“I’ve finally managed to contact him. He’s appeared twice in my dreams, and now I’ve learned how to contact him via meditation. The latter is much more effective, I find I retain much more control whilst in his realm if I enter it in a more lucid state than sleep.”

"Stanford..." Fiddleford muttered, the familiar tug of worry creeping up on him. Ford had always possessed a tendency to throw himself into his work, which sometimes resulted in him neglecting everything else, often to his detriment. He sincerely hoped this wasn’t one of those times. "Forgive me for saying so, but that doesn't sound healthy. You've been dedicatin' yourself to that thing with no care for food, or sleep, or rest of any kind."

"That's the thing!" He ran a hand through his hair, dropping the book on his desk and gesturing for Fiddleford to come and look. "At first I thought the same, that the entity was appearing in my dreams because I'd been saturating my mind with the book's contents, but now I'm not so sure."

Ford seemed to be treating this as some kind of victory, but as he continued to describe his interactions with this "entity", becoming more and more animated as he did so, an unusual cold washed over Fiddleford and filled him with quiet dread. 

"Trust me, my good friend," He said, beaming. "If I could introduce you to him, I would. He's incredibly intelligent, and the phenomena we've been chasing all these years is like second nature to him. If I could just find a way to pull him into this world..."

'Pull him into this world'. It had been muttered as an aside, the tired ramblings of an over-invested researcher. Fiddleford had paid it no mind at the time. Of course it had worried him, but Ford had been taken by fits of scientific passion before, and at the time this seemed no different. He’d never have done anything that would put himself or his brother at risk without seriously weighing up the pros and cons beforehand. It boiled down to the fact that Fiddleford trusted him, as he trusted both of them. Sat alone in the interrogation room, staring sadly at the tape recorder as it span on the desk before him, he wondered if that trust had been misplaced. 

Agent Powers raised a hand to quiet him, scribbling something into his pad. His expression hadn’t changed throughout his story thus far, leaving a prickly feeling in Fiddleford’s gut. 

"This book..." He muttered, flicking back through his notes. "Where did you find it?"

"The catacombs beneath Gravity Falls."

"You’ve mentioned these before. Surely you realise we’ve searched for these ‘caves’ of yours and found nothing."

"I’m telling the truth. They've been there for years, but the only entrances we managed to find were deep within' the woods."

“You were found in a clearing. We didn’t find any entrances in the surrounding miles of woodland. Do you mean to tell me you ambled over _three miles_ in your sleep, Dr. McGucket?”

“I’ve said before, I don’t know how I reached that clearing, and I don’t know how to find the graveyard where-- … Where it happened. It was dark, Ford and his brother were leading the way. I’m sorry, I just… I don’t recall.“

Powers fell quiet, watching Fiddleford carefully. Silence filled the room, and for a moment the tension seemed to fizzle out completely, leaving only the sound of hitched breathing and a vague, melancholic atmosphere. If only to push it away and fill the room with some kind of noise, Fiddleford cleared his throat and continued. 

“Now y’have to understand... “ He started, dragging a hand slowly through his hair as he tried to imagine how he could possibly frame this in a way that the Agent would believe. “At first this wasn’t abnormal for any of us. Stanley and I were both perfectly accustomed to Stanford’s obsession with his work, and sure he was gettin’ slightly more into it than normal, but he truly believed he was reachin’ some kind of break through, somethin’ his benefactors at the University had been asking him to provide since the moment he set down roots in Gravity Falls. We didn’t notice how bad it’d gotten until it was too late.”

# 3

Fiddleford swayed dangerously, arms filled with equipment that Stanford had been stockpiling in the basement. Stanley stood beside him carrying a pile twice as pig, everything about him brimming with excitement as he watched his brother pace about the room, head buried deep in his book and muttering under his breath.

It had been a slow couple of months. The weather had been on a progressive downhill slide, either making it impossible to drive into town or outright blocking the doors and snowing them in. Ford considered this a good thing, investing all of his time into the moth-bitten old book he now carried with him at all times, deciphering all the contents and continuing his contact with the “entity” he had become so fond of. It was all well and good, but even he was starting to get antsy, and Stanley alone was more eager to get out and explore than the three of them combined. Fortunately, the weather was showing signs of improvement, and the drive had defrosted enough that the path to the woods was finally clear. After all this time spent cooped up indoors, the Pines family was bristling for an adventure, and it showed. 

“Are you absolutely certain we have everything?” Ford asked, helping Stanley load the equipment into three backpacks. 

“Don’t worry, Sixer,” Stanley replied, hoisting a pack over his shoulder and procuring two old lanterns; one for his brother, and one for his partner. In his other hand he gripped a large spade. “I got the wire-thingamajigs all wrapped up safe. C’mon, I’m gonna lose my mind if we spend one more minute in this damn house.” 

“Hold your horses,” Fiddleford said, chuckling to himself as he shortened the straps on the bag Stanley had packed for him. “Your brother hasn’t told either of us where we’re going yet.”

Stanford picked up a bag, slung it over his shoulder, and took a lantern from Stanley. As he turned to face the others, it was a strange grin that spread across his face. It stretched slightly too far, and showed too many teeth. In the lantern-light, his eyes almost looked yellow.

“A tomb,” He said. “We’re going to a cemetery.”

Fiddleford felt his blood run cold. He stood and watched quietly, trying to push down the creeping paranoia as the twins performed their final checks and started heading out the door. It was typical, the first place they’d picked just had to be morbid- Heaven forfend anybody ask Fiddleford where _he_ wanted to go; yet he remained quiet as they ushered him out the front door.

He watched the twins amble out toward the fringe of the woods and cast his gaze skyward, to the bright, crescent moon peering back down at him from behind a thick veil of cloud. It was unnaturally vibrant tonight, spilling over the thick cloud-cover and lighting the forest path ahead of them. Pools of fog hung just above the snow-covered forest floor, casting a dreamlike haze over the as-yet undisturbed land and completing the picture. The serenity was broken only as the Twins strode through the snow to leave heavy, deep footprints. Fiddleford sighed, shook his head, and jogged to catch up. 

They continued through the woods for some time; the twins chatting amongst themselves with their usual vigor. For a moment Fiddleford felt the weight of worry lift completely from his shoulders, listening contentedly to Stanford prattling on about his research with the ambient noises of the forest serving a fitting backdrop. It was only when the land around them fell silent that his concerns began to resurface.

They had been walking for a while now, deeper into the forest than they normally dared to venture. They had long since passed the enchanted glen, and what little wildlife Fiddleford could still catch from the corner of his eye had grown silent and still. He increased his pace a little, taking Stanley’s hand despite the affectionate-teasing he knew he’d suffer for it later, but much to his surprise the hand he took was cold and clammy, and somehow Stanley seemed just as eager as himself for the comfort. Moments later, Stanford slowed to a halt, fetching the book from the inside of his coat and flicking through the pages. A curt nod confirmed it.  
They were here. 

Stanford immediately set about exploring the area, murmuring excitedly and making notes in his journal while his brother cautiously followed suit, but the idea of moving from his current spot and actually entering the cemetery was enough to make Fiddleford nauseous. The scene before him seemed ancient, far more so than anything they had seen in the woods before, and it seemed indescribably wrong to see two living creatures bumbling their way through the overgrowth and disturbing the peace. So it was that he stood at the edge of the plot, confident that he could see more than enough from where he was standing, and decided there and then that he would enter no further. 

Several graves marked the ground in front of him, arranged in an uneven pattern and each of them sporting its own kind of habitat. Cracked stones, abnormal growths of moss and weeds that Fiddleford swore were completely alien to him made each grave unique. The fog was the only consistency between them, spread evenly around the land and draped across each individual grave like a warm winter coat. Decay was ingrained in every surface, even tainting the mausoleums at the rear of the graveyard which blocked out the moon and cast one long, haunting shadow over the entire sordid affair. 

“Hey, Stringbean!” Stanley called, his hoarse yell like a knife’s edge through the silence. “Don’t just stand there, c’mon and give us a hand.”

Fiddleford wanted to join them, but every part of his body seemed reluctant to move forward. Stanley called again, and still he remained fixed in place. As the twins returned their attention to one of the structures at the rear of the plot, it occurred to Fiddleford then that his fear of being left alone in this dismal, unholy place was far greater than his fear of whatever might lurk deeper within. Without further delay, he jogged forward and into the curtain of fog, pushing aside his anxiety to join them. 

“Isn’t it magnificent…?” Ford asked, having already filled half a page in his journal with notes and detailed sketches.

Magnificent was the right word. The mausoleum towered above the three of them, old and weathered, brimming with confidence in its own grandiosity. It was clearly impressing the twins, but it just made Fiddleford feel small. 

“Well… It’s certainly somethin’ alright.” 

“So. We busting this thing open or what?” 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Fiddleford swung around to face Stanley, clutching to the straps of his backpack and shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Actually, that’s precisely what we’re going to do.” 

Stanford shut his book and pocketed it, brandishing one of the shovels and plunging it into the side of the door. He pushed against the handle with a confident grin, trying to pry it open while Fiddleford watched on in horror, unable to comprehend the kind of evil that might slip through were the seal on the door to be breached. 

“Stanley, could you give me a hand?” He hissed through clenched teeth, straining against the door with all his strength. Still, it didn’t budge. 

Fiddleford tried to speak up in protest, but it didn’t take long for him to realise that nothing he could possibly say would dissuade them. Instead, he watched quietly and held the lantern up high so their labours were at least well-lit. When the old stone finally gave, the twins jerked forward and collapsed into a small tangle of limbs, triumphantly hoisting the shovel and eagerly turning their attention toward the now-open tomb. Fiddleford might have joined them in celebration, but all rejoicing ceased as the opening of the tomb released with it a wave of utterly repugnant, nauseating gas. All three of them fell about coughing and spluttering, retreating for a time to the edge of the graveyard where the air was markedly less stale. When the gas had receded and the air around the tomb cleared, they returned to the entrance, eager to see what they had uncovered. 

“Yeesh,” Stan muttered, laughing through a cough as he wafted the air with a spare hand. “Smells like our bathroom after Fidds’ last attempt at Mexican cooking.”

Fiddleford blushed, slapping him playfully on the shoulder. 

Stanford shook his head, his smile fading as he turned his attention to the dank interior of the open mausoleum. At a glance it seemed empty, but after careful scrutiny…

“I think I can make out a set of stairs at the back!” He called to the others, taking a step inside. “This is it, this is what we’re looking for!”

Stanley followed him inside, determined not to be second-fiddle to his bookworm of a brother, leaving Fiddleford to wait for them outside. The inside was just as interesting as he’d hoped. It was engraved throughout with the strange symbols he’d seen in Ford’s magic book, steeped in mystery and intrigue, and in several spots he swore it sounded like the rock was whispering to him, but… His gaze lingered back to his partner, stood trembling outside the tomb, putting on a brave face despite Stanley knowing that he was absolutely terrified. He shook his head and tugged his brother aside, speaking quietly and hoping that the dark would conceal them. 

“So uh, bro… Are you sure he’s gonna be alright down there?”

Ford offered a reassuring smile, and for a brief moment the room didn’t seem quite so dark. 

“Don’t you worry, Stanley, I’ve accounted for Fiddleford. I’ll need his help to set up the equipment, but I fully intend to have him stay by this entrance while we do the manual work downstairs. His nerves aren’t really cut out for this kind of thing.” 

Stanley let out a heavy sigh of relief, clasping Ford’s shoulder and laughing to himself.

“Thank God,” He said. “He’s already white as a sheet. Chasin’ around Gnomes is one thing, but this…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence, for Ford understood perfectly. 

“Are you boys quite finished in there?” Fiddleford called, edging slightly closer to the door and peering around in the dark. “I swear before God, if either of you jumps out and tries to scare me… Well- Just _don’t_ , y’hear?” 

Stanley smirked, and started making off-pitch ghost noises. They echoed through the empty room and down the stairwell, unsettling Fiddleford more than he cared to admit. 

“Stanley!”

Ford allowed himself a moment of mirth, watching his brother stand in the doorway and waggle his fingers menacingly. He took another glance at the stairway, and pushing its unusual pull aside joined his brother outside, shouldering his backpack and beginning to unload his equipment. Happy for the distraction, once Fiddleford was done berating Stanley he took his backpack off and began to do the same. With the two of them working in tandem, Stanford’s device was set up in record time. It was just as he convinced himself that he was prepared to swallow his anxiety and actually enter the building that Stanford held out a hand, stopping him where he stood and handing him a walkie talkie. 

“... What’s this for?” He asked, peering up at the twins. Surely they weren’t planning on leaving him alone up here?

“Listen, Fiddleford…” Stanford started, glancing at his brother who offered a firm nod in assurance. “I can’t take you down there in good conscience. You’d be better off up here, where we can keep in touch with you in case anything goes wrong.” 

“What do you mean, ‘in case anythin’ goes wrong?’ I thought you were just getting readings?”

“That is precisely what I intend to do,” Ford continued, flashing a brilliant grin and speaking with all his usual confidence. “But if I’ve learned one thing from my research here in Gravity Falls, it’s that something always goes wrong. You’re better off up here as our safety line. Don’t you agree, Stanley?”

Stan looked guilty, shuffling from one foot to another, but when he spoke his voice was resolute. 

“Poindexter’s got a point. It looks freaky down there, and you don’t handle all that well in the dark.” 

“But- Stanley, not you too!” 

Fiddleford hadn’t noticed the desperation leaking into his voice, an edge that only grew as he came to understand exactly how serious the twins were. Each of his consequent pleas was met with a perfectly rational and reasonable response, but reluctant as he was to admit it, the fear he had was no longer about being left alone. He could feel it. There was something down there, in the murk, something ancient. Stanford knew it, Stanley at least suspected it, and it was clear that they were trying to protect him from it, but if that meant leaving him behind…

“I am absolutely serious, Fiddleford,” Ford spoke with a tone that intended to end the debate there and then. “Either you stay up here, or we don’t go down at all.”

Resisting the urge to agree and drag them both back to the house, Fiddleford relented with a quiet nod. Both of the twins seemed to shrink a little after that, faced with the reality of a situation that was likely too dangerous for any one of them. But… They’d come this far. 

Stanford set off first, hoisting his equipment onto his back, holding his lantern up high and striding into the darkness with an air of indomitable confidence. Stanley followed suit, smiling at Fiddleford and affectionately squeezing his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll be back before you know it.”

Fiddleford wished he believed him. 

He watched the warm glow of their lanterns disappear down the shaft, the light rolling gently up and down the walls as they descended into the unknown. When the last embers of their light grew dark, he moved away from the entrance and retreated to a nearby grave. He wasn’t nearly brave enough to touch it, through sitting on it or leaning against it, so he crossed his legs and lowered himself onto a patch of yellowing grass. The Walkie-Talkie crackled with static, and he clutched it tight against his chest. Time crawled by at a snail’s pace, yet despite the overwhelming desire to radio the twins and make sure they were okay, Fiddleford knew that he would have to be patient.

The only problem with being left alone to his thoughts was that they often drifted to a place he didn’t like. All manner of dark, twisted fantasies played in his head, and while lost in his paranoia the graveyard around him seemed to take on a kind of personality; cracks in the stone highlighted like twisted smiles in the waning moonlight, creatures and insects shifting in the night like phantom tendrils, and a quiet whisper that played constantly under the static of the radio. He convinced himself that the latter was purely a product of his imagination, but his attention kept drifting back to the open mausoleum, and that cursed set of stairs inside. Half an hour he sat, plagued by his own thoughts, and for half an hour he prayed that someone would hurry up and call. A total of forty-five minutes later, his prayers were answered.

The radio fizzed into life, and though it was patchy, Fiddleford could hear Stanford’s voice on the other end. “Ford?” He called, fiddling with the antenna in an attempt to scrounge a better signal. “Is that you? Is everythin’ alright down there?”

He barely recognised the voice that replied. Stanford, who had been the picture of confidence not an hour earlier, was whispering through the radio in a hush that carried more terror than any scream he’d heard before.

“My God, Fiddleford… If you could see what’s down here.”

“Stanford? What is it, what’s--”

“It’s… It’s horrible. It’s _monstrous_. I wish I had the words to describe it, but I doubt our language possesses words that could possible hope to capture--”

The static increased and for a second, Ford’s voice was drowned out by the noise. Fiddleford’s heart hammered in his chest, knuckles white as he clutched the radio and tugged the antenna every which-way until the signal righted itself. 

“I can’t-- … I wish I could, but-- … No, it’s too much to--”

His voice was distorted, coming through between bursts of static. Fiddleford still hung on every word. 

“Stanley-- God, I’m so-- … It… It got Stanley, I don’t know what to-- …”

A few seconds of complete silence engulfed the radio, no static, no Ford, nothing… When it passed, the static was gone, and Fiddleford could hear the terror in Ford’s voice with a disturbing clarity. 

“ _You have to get out,_ ” He hissed. “ _For the love of God, close the door and seal the tomb and get out of here if you still can._ ”

Fiddleford could feel a weight on his chest as a hundred different feelings tore through him all at once. How could Stanford expect him to just cut and run? Where was Stanley, what had ‘got him’, what the hell was going on? Even with hundreds of questions at the tip of his tongue, Fiddleford found himself stunned to silence, clutching the radio and praying that he would hear Stanley’s warm, deep laugh in the background and that it would all be some sick joke. Ford’s continued warnings over the radio faded to white noise as Fiddleford stood up, rushing toward the door, desperate to do _something_. 

“Don’t you worry, Ford, I’m comin’ down,” He yelled, half into the receiver and half down the stairs that were fast approaching, unsure which would reach him first.

“ _Beat it!_ For God’s sake, just close the door and get out of here!”

“If you think I can just up and abandon you two, you’re dead wrong!”

Ford’s voice picked up, yelling into the receiver with hoarse panic. 

“ _Don’t! You don’t understand, you can’t understand-- It’s too late! It’s my fault, all my fault- But you’re the only one who can do something, just shut the door and forget us, please._ ”

Fiddleford stared down into the dark, musky pit before him. He tried to move forward, tried so very hard to break through the paralysis that had taken hold of him to run downstairs and be at Ford’s side. But the next words that crackled through the old radio were enough to stop him dead in his tracks. 

“One of us has to survive, Fiddleford-- … It’s… It’s nearly over now. You have to seal the door. Please, you’re losing time. I’m so sorry… Cover up those damned steps and run for your life.”

He froze, staring at the radio.

“So long, Fiddleford-- We… We won’t see you again.”

And with that, the line went dead. 

“... Stanford?”

The night fell unnaturally still; no stirrings in the graveyard around him, and none from the stairwell looming in front of him. No noises. No voices. No static. Nothing. 

“... Stanford? _Stanford?!_ ”

For those next few minutes, the radio was the last extension of Stanford’s life, and he clutched it in his hands as if wishing hard enough for the twins to return would somehow summon their voices, crackling through the receiver once again. He called, and called, and called… For God knows how long he stood there, crying into the radio until his eyes were wet and his voice had gone hoarse. 

“Stanford- _Stanley_ , please- Answer me, are you there?”

And then there came the crowning horror, the point of the evening at which the last vestige of Fiddleford’s rationality drained away. The receiver crackled in his hand, fizzing and popping and making all manner of unnatural noises, and despite the horror curdling in his stomach, Fiddleford was so desperate for some kind of sign that he leaned inward, holding the radio close to his ear to listen. Silence fell, and one final time he called into it. 

“... Stanford? Stanley..? Are… Are you there?”

Neither of them were present to answer. What answered was something else, something… Other. There was no way to account for it. There was no way to describe it. Upon hearing the warped, distorted laughter fizz its way through the receiver, a mental blank fell over Fiddleford’s mind, a wave that made him dizzy, repulsed, and terrified all at once. That was where his experience of the evening ended. He heard it, and he heard no more. The laugh reverberated up the stairwell, echoing around the old mausoleum; it seeped from the walls and crawled its way up through the dirt until it was everywhere, in every surface and filling every space. His vision swam, and a dark and ghastly visage crossed his sight. 

An eye, a singular, bulging eye with an elongated pupil. It opened wide in the center of the moon, staring down at Fiddleford in a way that seemed to blame him for all of this. The last dregs of consciousness slipped from him, and the laugh grew quiet. 

“You idiot,” The voice said, echoing through the graveyard. “ _Sixer’s dead._ ”

# Epilogue

Agent Powers stared down at his page of notes, for all intents and puposes looking as though he were planning some sort of horror movie fest. Fiddleford had long since stopped talking, and now he sat in his chair completely still. His leg had stopped bouncing, he was no longer chewing his lip, and the knuckles that had turned white with strain while clutching the briefcase in his lap were now their normal shade of pink. Powers tapped his pen on the desk to grab his attention, and it was the face of a broken man that looked back up at him.

“That’s all you have to say.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. 

Fiddleford nodded silently, once again staring into his lap. He had been a fool to think that anything he might have said could have convinced him. The Agent gathered his papers together, flicking the microphone off before standing and giving him one final glance-over. Fiddleford braced for some kind of derogatory comment, but none came. He simply left the room, closed the door behind him, and with that it was over. No more chances. No more long-stories. Just Fiddleford, and whatever fate the judges saw fit to give him. 

“I should’ve kept my mouth shut…” He muttered, his nervous ticks returning as his mind swarmed around thoughts of sentences and prison. “Should’ve lied. Should’ve said anythin’ else…” 

His friends were dead, there was no longer any hope for him, and with quiet resignation he realised that there was genuinely nothing he could do to change that. Perhaps this was his penance for not stopping things sooner. He had seen Ford start to slip and he’d done absolutely nothing to stop it. His own cowardice had damned the twins to whatever dark fate they’d met in the depths of that pit; it was all his fault. 

He blinked away tears, wishing more than anything else in the world that he could see Stanley’s wide grin just one more time, hear the rustle of papers and a quiet sigh from Ford as he worked late into the night in the room next door, could hear the sounds of comfort and home as the two of them joked downstairs. 

“I’d do just about anythin’.” He mumbled aloud. “... _Anything_.”

There was a noise behind him, making him jump. Had someone been there, listening in? Something stopped him from turning around, exactly what that was he couldn’t say, but as he strained his ears so too did the walls appear to draw in closer, as though they were listening too. He heard the noise again, and this time his curiosity got the better of him. He only realised why the noise was so achingly familiar when it was too late. 

“Gee, buddy,” The voice chimed, loud and clamorous and echoing around the room. “You look down.” 

Fiddleford recognised the form it took from the notes in Stanford’s journal. This was the entity he had contacted, the creature he saw in his dreams. 

It hovered over to the desk, sitting down and crossing its legs. In its hand it held a cane, which it jabbed at Fiddleford and made him flinch. However, rather than poking his chest, it made a dull ‘thunk’ as it tapped against the briefcase he still had swaddled tightly in his arms. 

“Listen, you’ve got something that belongs to me,” It said, sounding far too amused. 

“This belongs to Stanford Pines,” Fiddleford mumbled angrily, refusing to look at it. He was going mad. He was surely going mad. 

“Yeah, and now he’s dead, so it belongs to me. Check inside if you don’t believe me, he left all his notes to yours truly in the case that he, y’know…” The creature drew a finger across where his neck might be, where he to have possessed one. “Listen, Stringbean. You have something I want, I have something you want. How’s about we work this out like rational-thinking-entities, huh?”

Fiddleford’s blood ran cold at the sound of that nickname, and he clutched the briefcase a little tighter. It was his last connection to the twins. He wasn’t going to let go of it, not for anything. 

“I can help you see them again,” It sang, twirling his cane and hovering into the air. When it laughed, Fiddleford swore he could hear echoes of the laughter from that dark, sordid graveyard. “Agent Chuckles is on his way back here with a merry band of FBI agents, do you _want_ to go to jail?”

“How can you help me see them again?” Fiddleford asked, kicking himself even after he'd said it for indulging the fantasty. 

“It’s simple!" 

The creature paused, and somehow, without the presence of a mouth or any similar orifice, it relaxed into what could only have been a smile.

"All you have to do is shake my hand.”

# End.


End file.
